Far To Fall
by Raletha
Summary: 6 years after the end of the war, Trowa arrives at Quatre's home for the first time. [4x3x4; short fic, yaoi, post-canon, sexual content, melancholy WAFF]


Far To Fall

by Raletha

  


Notes: Written as a short exercise to play with writing present tense and a glossy, more psychological sex scene, this fic is sort of a sequel to another fic of mine, Perigee, which you can find on my website. Trowa POV.

  


* * *

  
  


**AC 201**

  


We cross the threshold of the guestroom, and I barely have time to take in the colours and shapes and textures of the room. There is dark wood and blood red brocade, shimmering cream satin and sapphire blue velvet. There are graceful lines and polished surfaces. 

Quatre's eyes seize me when he turns. I drop my bag, and all other details are washed away by the simmering ardor contained in his ocean blue irises. 

I fall into his gaze as he moves closer - it's only two steps but the distance between us, for that tiny instant, seems vast and unconquerable. 

And I realise I am feeling him, as I once did. He calls to me - not out of fear of loss - but out of a thirst long gone unquenched. His desire touches me even before he does. It crawls beneath my skin, slithers through my stomach and smolders in my loins. Heat rises within me until it washes off me in waves. He must feel it too. 

He's older now than the boy who once filled my fantasies. I didn't realise until I saw him again that I had been fantasizing about a memory only: a boy, uncertain and idealistic, who had filled my adolescent dreams with new and dangerous wants. 

Quatre is a man now. It is an aura of power wrapped about him that has nothing to do with the three-piece suit he wears. It draws me to him even as he draws nearer. Once I wanted the boy, but now, that want is exposed to me as but a feeble whimsy compared to the unrelenting craving I possess for the man before me. 

We touch: he my cheek, I his neck - near his collar. "You're really here," he murmurs before his lips crash into mine. 

My fall has been broken. We collide and I sink deeper, beneath the surface - his surface. I am drowning on his lips; my senses unhinge, and I grow dizzy before they resolve into something else, something more focused and constant - something ancient, something bright. 

There are too many buttons: my shirt and fly, his waistcoat and shirt. For every one I undo, my fingers seem to find three more. He doesn't wait. We spin, and I stagger backwards until the edge of the bed buckles my knees, and Quatre tumbles down on top of me. 

"I've never used this bed," he says. He's abandoned my shirt - leaving it only half undone - and now slows his fingers enough to unfasten my pants. I kick, he tugs, and soon my legs are free. My socks are still on, but I don't care. 

"I can feel you," I breathe into his golden hair. I can. He burns inside me, white hot and intoxicating. HIs touch is strong and sure as he seeks my pleasure. Between kisses, his teeth graze the hard muscles of my chest. I push up into his palm, wanting more friction between my skin and his hand. 

"I feel you too," he whispers. 

"Come inside me," I gasp and arch against him. 

"I want to." His words are nearly a growl. 

I roll over and raise myself to my hands and knees. His fingers touch my ankle, their contact muffled by the cotton of my sock, as he leans away to the nightstand drawer. 

It seems Quatre is always prepared. 

Warm fingers spread cool gel over, around, and inside. Quickly I relax and tell him I'm ready. I hear fabric rustle. 

His lips touch my shoulder, and he begins to press into me. "Trowa," he whispers against my skin. "_Trowa_..." 

It is beautiful, this joining - symbolic even. He is moving into my body just as he is moving into my life, and I never want to forget the way I feel at this moment. It's a melancholy desire, for I know this sense of nascent perfection shall pass and fade. I want to freeze time and exist here for a while, but time does not answer to my whims. 

I mourn even as I exalt. 

The smooth tails of his shirt and the scratchy wool edges of his waistcoat drag along my back; the heavier fabric of his blazer drapes against my buttocks and hips. 

I am full of Quatre - full to brimming - his body and mind become my ardent, joyously welcomed invaders. My fists are full of blood red brocade, my eyes water, and my ears the rapid drumming of my heart. 

Never dared I dream I could feel so alive in a world so swathed in death. In my life of violence, never dared I look for such peace. But even as I despaired, this is what I fought to hope for - not once expecting to find it (and coming to believe that I had mislaid any chances of claiming even a fragment or a moment) for myself. 

"Oh... perfect," he mumbles as he moves, and I wonder if he can read my thoughts as well as my feelings. 

"Yes," I hiss, and I rock with him. 

He straightens; one hand slips up my spine and gathers my shirt, baring my heated skin to the cooler air. The other reaches beneath me to take me in hand again, creating the potential for even greater sensations than his presence alone inside me. 

A potential he exploits with ruthless precision, for he knows my body now. I am reminded by the gradually accelerating rhythm of his movements, and the way he coordinates the pressure of his hand with the angle of each thrust. The way he pulls as he pushes; squeezes when he grinds - it is a play he directs purely for our pleasure. 

The inevitable glory of my climax approaches like a sunrise, glimmering bright on the horizon. I can sense it making my arrival real in a way it wasn't (even couldn't have been) before. I am here now, at last. He's coming into me, welcoming me, bringing me into his life. 

"Quatre," I whimper as the quaking begins. 

I wish I could tell him I love him, but I don't think it's true yet. Instead I say his name again. Hearing his name spoken in passion by my own voice feels good. I can't wait to tell him other things. I can't wait to fall in love, and I know I don't have that much farther to fall. 

  


**the end**


End file.
